The road to Rocca Falcone was, for three glorious days, a river of silver. On the fourth day, it became a river of blood.
The merchant, Tito, emboldened by his first successful trip, was on his way back for a second load of flour. His caravan was slightly larger this time, his confidence high. He was halfway through the wooded hills when the world exploded.
There was no warning cry, no bandit roar. There was only a volley of crossbow bolts from the trees, felling his lead guards before they could even draw their swords. Men in dark, unmarked leather tunics swarmed from the woods on both sides. They were not a ragged band; they moved with the swift, brutal efficiency of professional soldiers. The fight was a slaughter. Tito and his men were cut down in less than a minute.
The attackers did not loot the wagons. Under the cold eyes of their captain, Corrado, they systematically butchered the oxen, smashed the wagons to splinters, and set the wreckage ablaze. The fine flour spilled out onto the road, mixing with the blood and the dirt before being consumed by the flames. The message was not theft; it was annihilation.
Two hours later, a routine patrol led by Centurion Marco from the garrison at Pietra Secca came upon the scene. The smell of smoke and death led them to the smoldering ruins. Marco, a man now blooded in battle, surveyed the scene with a soldier's eye. The bodies of the guards had been killed with professional, disabling blows. The wagons were destroyed, not just robbed. This was not the work of common brigands. This was a military operation.
He sent his fastest rider to Rocca Falcone with the dire news.
The messenger arrived just as the valley was stirring for its midday meal. The news swept through the fiefdom like a plague, chilling the prosperous atmosphere to the bone. The merchants who were preparing to depart immediately began turning their wagons around. The river of silver had been dammed overnight. The new road was now haunted.
In the tower, Alessandro listened to the rider's report, his face a mask of cold fury. He knew, with absolute certainty, who was responsible.
"This is the Baron's work," he stated to his assembled council. "He hired professionals. He aims to terrorize the merchants and sever our connection to the outside world."
"We must complain to the Bishop!" Bastiano urged, his face ashen. "This is a violation of the peace!"
"With what proof?" Alessandro countered sharply. "The Baron's banner was not seen. His name was not spoken. The Bishop will see it as a simple bandit attack, one I am too weak to handle myself. To appeal to him now would be to prove our weakness. No. The Baron has made this move. We must make the next."
"An army cannot guard every inch of that road," Enzo said grimly. "It is too long. We would be spread too thin."
"Then we will not guard the road," Alessandro said, his eyes taking on a predatory glint. "We will hunt it. And we will set a trap for the hunters."
He outlined his plan, a strategy born from a future understanding of asymmetrical warfare. "First, we will begin aggressive patrols. Small squads of our guards will constantly move along the road, day and night. They will make the 'bandits' nervous, force them to be cautious. Second, and more importantly, we will become the prey."
He looked at the confused faces of his men. "These mercenaries are hunting for merchant caravans. We will give them one."
He explained the concept of the "Q-ship," a decoy. They would prepare a single, large merchant wagon. It would appear to be lightly guarded, a tempting, vulnerable target. But hidden inside, beneath a false floor covered by canvas and empty sacks, would be his best soldiers, armed and ready.
"They will spring their ambush, and walk directly into ours," Alessandro concluded.
"It is too dangerous, my lord!" Bastiano protested. "To put yourself in such a position…"
"I must lead this mission myself," Alessandro said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I gave my word that this road would be safe. My honor and the honor of this house are on the line. The merchants and our own people need to see that their lord does not hide behind his walls when there is a threat. I promised them a safe road. I will deliver one."
The preparations began at once, shrouded in secrecy. Lorenzo and his smiths worked to subtly reinforce the floor of a large wagon. Enzo selected the best, most placid-looking ox to pull it, one that would not spook easily.
In the bailey, Alessandro stood with Marco and the twelve men he had handpicked for the mission. They were the best of the Falcon Guard, the veterans of the first battle, men who had been tested and had not broken. They were not polishing their armor for display. They were checking the edges of their swords, securing the straps on their shields, and wrapping their spear butts in cloth to prevent any sound.
They were no longer soldiers preparing for a battle. They were hunters, turning themselves into the bait to lure a far more dangerous predator into their trap. The future of Rocca Falcone would not be decided by the price of flour, but by the bloody business that would take place inside a single wooden wagon on a lonely, haunted road.